The first monster
was a surprise. Our first encounter was at a now-defunct shop on Route 1, where
I was killing time during one of my daughter’s Saturday riding lessons. As I
browsed through the usual card-shop bric-a-brac, I sensed a presence looming
above me. When I looked up to the top shelf, there lay a blue creature that
only a mother-monster could love.
Two feet long and
lizard-like, he sprawled along the glass shelf, his pink eyes regarding the
world with baleful intensity. Tufts of brownish fuzz sprouted from his knees,
his spine, his neck and his gray possum-tail. With his three-fingered hands and
three-toed feet, and bearing a rhinoceros-like horn, he resembled nothing so
much as a colossal mistake in a stuffed-animal factory. He was, beyond doubt, a
beast of the first order. And yet…he was a small beast, and looked
rather forlorn. I plucked him from the
shelf, almost expecting resistance.
There was none. In
fact, I found that he fit into my arms neatly, like an incredibly ugly baby.
Touch was his forte. His body was made of fuzzy, blue-checked lumberjack-shirt
wool; his head and legs of blue velvet. The pads of his feet and hands were
leathery, and even the sprouts of fur were an interesting contrast. He was
eminently huggable, and for someone like me who comes from a long line of
non-huggers and non-touchers, he was absolutely amazing. His name was Sly
Upcreet, and his attached biography described him as the monster under the bed:
the one who feeds on random socks and dust bunnies in the dark of night, but
skitters off at the approach of a flashlight.
He cost $125.
Obviously, his maker knew the magic she had created, and put a fitting price on
it. I left him behind reluctantly, and retrieved my daughter from her lesson.
Months later, Sly
reappeared as a strangely lumpy package on my birthday. (My elder daughter had
blabbed.) I actually took him to school that morning to show my friends and
students. Oddly, no one succumbed to his charm, despite my encouragement to
pick him up and hold him. All I was given were dubious looks and a rather wide
berth. Perhaps Sly only turns on his charm for other ugly ducklings—or those in
need of a hug.
Let me go on the
record with this: I have never been one to be lured by a Beanie Baby, or
bewitched by a teddy-bear (although the occasional sheep has caught my eye). Dolls
and stuffed animals were not my favorite toys, even as a child. Sly is a horse
(monster) of a different color (blue). He has no decorative function. He is not
cute. He might even be scary to the uninitiated. He simply sits in my family
room near the fireplace, and sometimes joins me on the couch for a movie. He’s
someone to hold when there’s no one to hold onto.
Having Sly, however,
led me to search for more of his brethren. His creator was named in a small
leather medallion round his neck—Charlene Kinsser. A tiny biography of Sly
attached to his wrist described him and his maker sufficiently for me to know
there were others like him out there—but, like most monsters, they possessed
secret lairs, accessible only to those who sought them diligently.
I found a cousin,
Freda B. Fierce, in her flannel pajamas in a small shop in Occoquan some years
later. She was pink velvet, with baby-bead teeth and an orange hair ribbon
perpetually slipping down her ears. Her eyes were a little too close-set for
comfort, and her long snout and burgundy suede tongue—not to mention those
irregular teeth—failed to engender in me the same affection I felt for Sly.
But, when positioned in her doll high chair on the hearth, she took on a
friendlier mien.
By this time,
friends and family had been introduced to the search. Other Kinsser animals
were located—a rabbit here, a bear there--but it was the monsters that were the
real prizes. On a trip to New York, my younger daughter found a cache in a Soho
toystore called ‘The Enchanted Forest’. She kept the secret for nearly six
months, and used more of her money than she should have to bring me the Closet
Beastie for Christmas. He was the epitome of all presents—something totally
useless, that no one but me understood or loved, but purchased anyway, simply
because she knew I would treasure him. Beasley (for that’s what I named him) is
one of the best presents anyone ever gave me for that very reason.
A few years later, I
found myself in the same store in Soho, and was beguiled by a
non-monster—Coyote Sir. He was mohair-coated, dressed to dine with a napkin
round his neck and roadkill menu in hand. He had absolutely lunatic eyes, but was
wonderful to hold, and possessed a delightfully springy tail. He flew home with
me on the shuttle, though I’m sure he’d have rather gone first-class. When we
arrived home, I placed him on the foyer loveseat with my collection of sheep
and went upstairs to unpack. Coming downstairs and heading for the kitchen a
while later, I saw that the sheep were huddled together on the far end of the
loveseat, opposite the corner claimed by Coyote. My husband assured me that
he’d sat down to tie his shoes and unconsciously had shoved them aside. I’m not
so sure. Those eyes were unnerving. Eventually, I bought him a pair of
spectacles which, for some reason, diminished the effect. The sheep have
relaxed a bit.
Winnie and Charmaine
are throwbacks to the original Sly concept. They are the smallest of the lot,
and were adopted as a pair. They are best friends, and their arms button around
each other. They live in the red chair in the living room, only departing when
company comes and they have to sacrifice their comfort for the sake of
hospitality. Of all the extended monster family, they are probably the most
generally appealing. They are small and brown and squirrel-like: standard and
appealing enough for the average observer to understand.
Sadie is the last. I
bought her, sight unseen, at the recommendation of a shop-owner who knows my
weakness for the Kinsser creations. We have not yet bonded, though it’s been a
year or so. She lounges on the arm of the chair in the family room, but doesn’t
demand attention. Somehow, it isn’t the same. I bought her simply because
Charlene Kinsser is retiring from the general marketplace, and Sadie may be the
last of her monsters I will find. That makes her a sad coda to my collection. The
monster-lady is now making only a few each year—special editions for
collectors. I suspect they will be one of a kind creations for people who can
afford ever-more-outrageous prices: thousand dollar dragons that will be art,
not magic—made to make money; to be admired, not loved.
Practicality and the
marketplace have triumphed over fun. I’m not altogether surprised. The creations
have changed in recent years, and I’m sure that the original creator’s hand was
missing. Sly II came out last year, and he had no spark in him. I would gladly
have left him under the bed to gorge on dust bunnies and die. He was plastic
and rayon and slick and shiny. “Smooth as silk and sincere as polyester” is the
description that comes to mind. He was meant to be a pajama-bag. My shop-owner
friend didn’t understand why I didn’t snap him up, but who can believe in a
pajama bag? Pajama bags don’t sing.
And that is the crux
of all collections, be they art or antiques or matchbooks or monsters: they
must have a siren song of sorts—a resonance between maker and the work that reaches
out and captures the unwary and makes them part of the creative magic.
I can see the new
monsters, made in the image and likeness of the older models, but they are
depressingly silent. With their creator in retirement, other hands are meddling
and other heads are making decisions. The new monsters don’t speak… perhaps
they have nothing more to say.
